truly and most tenderly
by iantha-a
Summary: After receiving shocking news, Alexander re-reads a stack of letters bound by a blue ribbon, Eliza worries and all of that's left of John's are strokes of ink.


**AN: I wrote this two years ago, in 2017. It has already been posted in my AO3 account, but I'm taking the time to transfer most of my works also to here. Thank you for clicking on this fic, please review and enjoy it! The title comes from a quote from the historical Hamilton.**

* * *

Ever since he's remembered Alexander's always been one of habit.

He's always liked to store beloved trinkets away, cradling close, out of reach of others. An old faded book, some pages brown at the edges, others curling at the ends, at the front page, scribbled his mother's name. Something to hold close.

A parchment filled with a rough sketch in charcoal, the neck of a man stretching on and on, pale and inviting. Another smaller man leaning close, their faces almost touching. Something to hold dear.

(Something to hold dear, cradling, pressing, promising to never let go.)

A handful of teal, blue and silver ribbons, the material soft and shiny, stolen from the tendrils of his Eliza's long black locks. Smelling of those expensive oils she really likes, a flower he can't name. Something to treat with care. A handful of beloved letters, all tied up nicely, stored away.

Every single letter stored away, locked in a drawer.

Alexander likes to keep all his letters organized, in piles and all of them in a drawer, tucked away neatly, held together by ribbons. Some letters are worn, old, mostly the correspondence with his father, a few letters exchanged with Ed Stevens. Those he keeps tucked in a little corner, a hidden spot, a shameful secret his past.

Of course, there are also other letters, other correspondences, some are from close acquaintances, men which he fought along with at the war, other aides-de-camp of Washington, a few letters of the man himself. There are also more light-hearted letters, full of secrets and hidden jokes from close friends, the Marquis's letters scribbled in a mix of what seems like French and English, containing many exclamation marks and the usual request to send his greetings to their friends.

There's a handful from Annie, and Peggy both. His closest siblings in law, the other girls too young to mingle properly and their brothers too stiff. Peggy amused with interesting stories from the countryside, detailing the boys around there and their lack of charm. "Though," she writes once, "I can't find any faults on the ladies."

Then there's his dear Annie Schuyler, sly, smart and clever, who writes long letter's detailing interesting facts.

("Just little curious gossip," Annie would remark teasingly.

"Ha!" would snark Peggy, loud and vivacious and full of life. "Since when it's blackmail gossip?"

"Since it's used for good purposes, Peggy dear," Eliza would respond, shaking her head amusedly, a smirk playing in her lips.)

There are letters he keeps tucked away in the darkest corner of the drawer, ones that he doesn't take out regularly. Some letters that only for him to see, to cradle close and let them seep into himself.

(Alexander stays all night sometimes, looking through those letters, looking at the looping handwriting, the small doodles in the corner of the page. The odor of spice, burnt wood and old parchment. Wondering what to write next, he stares at the tattered remains of the failed copies. And sets back to work.)

Maybe it's because of that pile of letters, that he keeps the thick bunch of his correspondence with Eliza at the middle of the drawer, tied down with one of his green ribbons. Drawing the attention, looking well cared for, in the spotlight.

Alexander sometimes wonders how it reflects on his own life, his Eliza, sweet, charming, brilliant and always at his side. His dear Betsey, the center of parties.

(Then tucked away like a dirty secret, Jack's face nearing his, dark blue eyes beckoning, his own little secret. His own, only his, never anyone else's.)

* * *

It happens one evening after dinner. He's tucked little Philip already, under Eliza's careful watch. The two stand there looking quietly upon their son, his little button nose scrunched up, a scattering of little fading freckles in his cheeks. It's a familiar gesture, he thinks fondly, before he kisses his wife in the cheek and retires to take care of some documents.

Alexander's maybe an hour in, his fingers already stained with ink, hair falling from his ponytail, tickling his chin when there's a knock at the door.

"Uh, yes," he says distractedly, hardly looking up from his work. He frowns scratching something in the parchment, muttering untangibly. "When was this proposal made dear God—yes, come in!"

The door opens a creak and a lithe figure slips inside, a hand clutching a candle.

"Alexander?" His heart skips a beat. It's Eliza, he sighs.

"Betsey, love can't this wait until tomorrow, you know I have to finish—"

She cuts him off. "Alexander," her voice trembles as she speaks, "you got a letter."

He goes still in his chair wondering what might be what upset her so much. Is it a letter from her father? Did something happen to Annie? Or Peggy, perhaps one of the other girls? No, no, think Hamilton, he thinks, if something had happened to his family in law they wouldn't send a letter.

Then perhaps a letter from his father? Alexander wonders wildly, pondering in the situation, it could be, Eliza's always gotten teary-eyed at the mention of James Hamilton Sr. No, his brother then? But _no_, perhaps it's Mulligan, or maybe the Marquis is in trouble or—

His blood runs cold at the thought. _Or maybe it's—_

"Betsey, love?" he prompts, for once uncaring if his voice is trembling or not. "A letter _from?_"

Eliza looks up from the letter, her face is waxy pale, eyes red-rimmed. "You've got a letter from South Carolina. It's from the Laurens—"

Alexander can feel his shoulders slumping in relief. "Betsey, it's from John Laurens, I'll read it later."

"No," the ferociousness in her voice startles him. "No, it's not. It's from his father."

Everything's a blur from then on. He barely remembers Eliza reading the letter out loud, her voice weak, hands trembling at her sides. He can feel himself float, heart thudding hard, thinking— thinking—

He can't think, Alexander struggles desperately to form words with his mouth, but it's like his tongue is stuck. Like his throat has closed up, he feels sick. He feels someone calling him.

He half turns, mouth dry manages to rasp out. "What?"

Eliza's standing by the door, clad in her blue nightgown, hair down like an unmarried girl's, a worried frown in her face. "Alexander?" she asks hesitantly, takes a step forward, wavering. "Are you alright?"

Her voice wavers slightly, she reaches out with a hand.

(_Am I fine?_ he could say, his voice monotone, his heart torn to shreds. _Am I fine?_ He could scream, he could cry he could– he could—

He couldn't do anything. A sob is making way to his throat, he clamps his mouth shut.)

Alexander peers at Eliza, her hair a mess, nose red, a carefully acted frown in her face. He manages to pull a broken smile out of his churning gut and says: "Don't worry, Betsey. It's just..."

It just what, he thinks then angrily, fighting back tears. Hard to admit that Jacky Laurens—that John's not coming back? That he's not going to wake up sometimes with his body cradling close, skin to skin, his mouth turning up in a shy smirk. His dark blue eyes peeking from across him, mocking at the idiots they fought with, curls brushing his collarbone.

"Just go to sleep, I'll be right over," he tries for a calm look. Perhaps it doesn't work, Eliza's face pinches, his eyes wide. "Alexander—"

"Just," he realizes with a start he's risen up abruptly, his voice taking a loud mean tone. He slumps, "Just go to sleep love, I'll be right over, promise."

Eliza hesitates, takes a step closer to him, then her face crumbles and she nods tightly. Picking up her candle, she makes her way to the door, then speaks up softly: "I'm so sorry, Alexander." The door closes with a click.

Alexander peers down at his hands, ink-stained by all the hours scribbling away. He makes his way to his desk, slumps in the chair, hovers a hand close to the drawer.

Making a second split decision he pulls it open. Inside it's overflowing with letters, the thick material of his courting with Eliza, the secret gossip between the tiger Schuyler sisters, the dirty jokes in French with the Marquis and—

He reaches out hand trembling, retrieving the stack, cradling it in his palms. It's a small stack compared with all others, maybe the smallest one.

With care he doesn't remember he has, he unties the knot in the letters, letting them spill into his desk. Moving his gaze away from them for a moment Alexander looks down at the ribbon, blue and silky, like the one's Eliza likes, the exact shade of Jack's eyes.

Raising his trembling hand up to his face, he feels the tears threatening to burst. "Jack," he cries, "my Laurens, no, please."

(The ribbon was his, he knows, he used to tie it in his pale corn hair, and Alexander used to pull it out, tugging at it, until it came loose, curls spilling in his shoulders. Jack would grin then, trying to seem confident, but Alexander could see the trembling in his hands.

Reaching out with his hand to brush a stray curl away. "Jack, my Laurens," they sank into each tiger greedily, no time to waste, love burning in their wake.)

Alexander tucks the ribbon in his pocket, never pulls it out again. It's a reminder then, that he can never stop. He sweeps the letters away, he doesn't cry, his heart is torn to pieces, holding down by strings that threaten to break.

He picks up his quill, "I have so much work to do."

It's all the fault of that damned letter, in that damned night, he thinks later. Maybe Jack never even got to read his last letter. The notion makes him tremble like mad, faces him the urge to cry. He doesn't

A few days later a stack of letters arrives, his own calligraphy staring down at him. On the front there's a note that reads:

_Jacky would've wanted this to go to you, Cl. Hamilton._

_-M. Laurens._

(Alexander puts them with Jack's letters, this time he ties them with one of his own ribbons. He reads them again only once, twenty-seven years later, grim-faced and ready for death. He doesn't cry then either.)

Sometimes Alexander wonders at night laying in bed, Eliza next to him if perhaps Jack died thinking their love was gone.

(Sometimes Alexander wonders if it was his own fault.)

Alexander doesn't cry that night, nor the next or so on. Maybe it's because he's not ready yet. In the next years he doesn't cry, not when freckled Philip shudders and murmurs French in his deathbed. Or when little Angie stares into space and talks to a brother that's not there anymore.

Still, it seems he finds himself ready twenty-seven years later.

(Ten paces away from facing one of his closest friends, gun in hand, the fire burned out. Eyes glinting behind small glasses, streaks of gray wavering along his temples.)

When he looks up and sees his face, grinning down at him, young and immortally beautiful, that's when he feels the tears spilling from his cheeks. He raises the hand clothing the gun, trembling, faintly hears the echo of a shout. But it doesn't matter, even as red is spilling down his stomach, because there are tears in his eyes, for the man he truly and most tenderly loved.

* * *

"His career of virtue is at an end. How strangely are human affairs conducted that so many excellent qualities could not ensure a more happy fate? … I feel the loss of a friend I truly and most tenderly loved."**\- Alexander Hamilton, 1782.**


End file.
